The Racing Rats
by TJ-TeeJay
Summary: Peter didn't think Neal could run. Would run. Not while he was still wearing the anklet, and definitely not like this. PG-13, Gen, Songfic.


**Title: **The Racing Rats  
><strong>Author: <strong>TeeJay  
><strong>Genre: <strong>Gen  
><strong>CharactersPairings: **Peter, Neal  
><strong>Rating: <strong>PG-13  
><strong>Warnings:<strong> Angst. Lots of it. Mild spoilers for 2x09 'Point Blank'  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Peter didn't think Neal could run. _Would_ run. Not while he was still wearing the anklet, and definitely not like this. (Songfic.)  
><strong>Author's Note: <strong>I should probably explain this: mistressnoir posted on the [whitecollarfans] Yahoo mailing list that she was currently into the album "An End Has A Start" by The Editors, and that pretty much all the songs reminded her of White Collar. She challenged us to write a songfic. So I did. I must admit that their music isn't really my thing, but the lyrics of the song "The Racing Rats" struck a chord. Amy, I hope you like this, and I hope this is what you were thinking of.  
>This is set at an unspecified time after season two.<br>A big thank you goes out to rabidchild67 for the beta.  
><strong>Disclaimer: <strong>White Collar, its characters and its settings belong to Jeff Eastin and USA Network. And, guys? Your characters are not only welcome, they're wonderful. I'm just borrowing, I promise.  
><strong>And a Thank You:<strong> I've been meaning to do this for a while, and now I finally remembered to put this here. I shamelessly admit I'm usually too lazy to answer reviews. It's mainly because I find the FFN private message system too cumbersome. Thus, herewith I wanna extend a heartfelt thank you to everyone who has left me a review, encouraging words, praise, squeeage or concrit. Even though I would probably still be writing these stories if I wasn't receiving all this positive feedback, it still means a whole lot. Every little review in my mailbox gets me all excited and encourages me to delve into another story and feel good about sharing the end product. They really do mean a lot. So please keep them coming. (And I won't blame you if you end up not actually liking this particular fic too much, because... Well, read for yourself, then decide.)

* * *

><p><em>When the time comes<br>That you're no longer there  
>Fall down to my knees<br>Begin my nightmare_

It began with a phone call. The Marshals had called Peter with a simple question: Was Caffrey with him? Simple answer: No.

His anklet had activated, he was outside his radius. Peter's initial reaction was annoyance. A little bit of anger. Then worry.

A quick look at Neal's tracking data on the laptop showed a blinking beacon that was steadily moving. Well outside his radius now.

Neal's cell phone revealed nothing except his usual, buoyant request to leave a message.

"Dammit, Neal!" Peter hissed. Then he got in the car and drove.

* * *

><p><em>Words spill from my drunken mouth<br>I just can't keep them all in  
>I keep up with the racing rats<br>And do my best to win_

Peter twirled the rumpled piece of paper between his fingers. Satchmo sat obediently next to him, guarding the couch and its owner. Satchmo knew something was wrong, but had no voice nor leverage to do anything about it.

_Thank you for everything, Peter. You're going to be tempted to look for me. Don't._

Plain. To the point. It spoke volumes in a few, simple words. Very Neal.

It had been stuffed into an empty '82 Bordeaux bottle, left together with the tracking anklet in the entranceway to the apartment building where Peter had arrested Neal (the second time). Peter knew it meant Neal wasn't in danger. It also meant goodbye.

It wasn't going to be as easy as that, and they both knew it. Peter would have to look for Neal. It's not like he had a choice, and it wasn't just because he was an FBI agent. He took another gulp from the vodka bottle. Beer wouldn't cut it tonight.

"Dammit, Neal," he hissed. Then he put the bottle on the table and slumped against the backrest.

* * *

><p><em>Slow down, little one<br>You can't keep running away  
>You mustn't go outside yet<br>It's not your time to play  
>Standing at the edge of your town<br>With the skyline in your eyes  
>Reaching up to God<br>The sun says its goodbyes_

Neal gripped the railing of the ferry, taking a last look at the New York skyline in the distance. He knew he'd miss it, and it wasn't just the city.

The sun was a tangerine ball just about to set, painting the clouds a blend of oranges and pinks, and Neal chuckled bitterly at the irony of this being the most beautiful sunset in his memory.

It hadn't been an easy decision, but in the end it was the only decision he_ could _make. He'd had to make a lot of choices in his life where he left something behind, but it had never been this difficult. Not by a long shot.

A lone tear rolling down his cheek left a salty trail on his skin. The cold breeze made it feel like it might just leave a scar. Neal didn't bother to wipe it away.

"Dammit, Peter," he hissed. Then he turned around and headed inside to find shelter from the icy wind.

* * *

><p><em>If a plane were to fall from the sky<br>How big a hole would it leave  
>In the surface of the earth<em>

It had been three weeks, and still no sign of Neal. Not even the slightest indication of where he had gone, how he had gone—and most importantly—_why_ he had gone.

The first week, Peter hadn't noticed his absence so much because he'd been busy. Busy chasing bogus leads, working cases (mostly _the_ case), all the while looking. And waiting. Waiting for a sign. A postcard, a note, a secret message. Anything.

The second week, they thought they had something. Neal's credit card had caused a blip on the radar. There were frantic road trips, phone calls, interrogations. In the end, it turned out some guy had found it in a wallet discarded in a Manhattan trashcan. A dead end.

Yeah, Peter thought Neal would never be that stupid, but he'd be lying if he said his heart hadn't leapt with a brief flicker of hope.

The third week, it finally hit home. Things were quieting down, and there was a gaping, Neal-sized hole in the White Collar unit. Neal's desk was untouched, the little white bust still next to the computer screen, the rubber band ball lying as if he'd just tossed it there, files of wrapped up cases neatly stacked on the side. Peter caught himself a few times, gazing down into the bullpen from his office, only to find the person his eyes searched out missing.

"Dammit, Neal," he hissed. Then he leafed a weary hand through his hair and tried to bury himself in menial tasks that offered neither the distraction nor the relief he craved.

* * *

><p><em>Let's pretend we never met<br>Let's pretend we're on our own  
>We live different lives<br>Until our cover's blown_

The hotel room much resembled one Neal easily revisited in his head—a memory he'd rather ban forever. The fly-squatting, anklet-wearing clerk, the cheap hooker near the counter, the vagrants at the door, the dog on the bed. He never wanted to go back to that place.

Different city, same shabby dreariness. Neal missed the loft, the coffee, the clothes. And most of all, the people.

Inwardly (and sometimes outwardly), he cursed himself. Cursed himself for getting attached, for getting his life tangled up in that of one Peter Burke (and his lovely, sweet, caring, wonderful wife who always smelled of tasteful perfume and lavender shampoo).

He'd considered calling Mozzie a few times on the disposable phone he'd acquired (not quite legally). He hadn't given in to the impulse, however. Who said he didn't have impulse control? In the end, it came down to the fact that under no circumstances could Peter find him. And if Mozzie had any contact with him, even if he didn't know his location, it'd be a liability. A risk. One he was not willing to take. Not yet anyway.

He'd not considered calling Peter. No, that wasn't true. He'd gone over their conversation in his head a million times. Too many times than was healthy for any sane mind. But he'd never truly gotten as far as taking the phone and letting his fingers hover over the buttons, not like when he wanted to call Moz. Because Peter would be the only one who could stop him, make him turn around. And they both knew it.

"Dammit, Peter," he hissed. Then he took off his rumpled shirt and tried hard to overlook the grimy, dark stains in the grooves between the bathroom tiles.

* * *

><p><em>I push my hand up to the sky<br>Shade my eyes from the sun  
>As the dust settles around me<br>Suddenly nighttime has begun_

Her gentle, warm hands felt like sweet release on Peter's shoulders. They were a stark contrast to the cold dining table's surface.

"Are you coming to bed tonight?" his wife softly asked, and he had too vivid a déjà vu. They'd been here, years ago. A lifetime ago, it felt.

Back then, he'd mostly been vexed. Maybe humiliated, taunted. This was more. Betrayal. Disappointment. Loss. This was personal.

He didn't think Neal could run. _Would_ run. Not while he was still wearing the anklet, and definitely not like this. He closed his eyes and suddenly felt tears stinging behind his eyelids. Tears that surprised him more than anything. You didn't grow attached to your CI. You didn't become friends with your informants. There were good reasons why you would do well not to let that happen.

And yet, he'd been defenseless. Neal Caffrey's charm had worked its way into Peter's heart and the man into his life. And there was no going back now.

Elizabeth's lips kissed the top of his head. "I miss him too," she whispered. "Come to bed. Please." It was a plea, and it wasn't even silent.

"I'll be up in a minute," he muttered and listened to her bare feet padding up the stairs.

"Dammit, Neal," he hissed. Then his arm swept all the paperwork off the table in an unbridled fit of frustration and disappointment.

* * *

><p><em>If a plane were to fall from the sky<br>How big a hole would it leave  
>In the surface of the earth<br>The surface of the earth_

Neal sat with his eyes glued to the small window, even though there was nothing to see but murky, gray clouds. The plane shook quite abruptly, and the 'Fasten Seatbelts' sign came on with a _Ding_. He pulled his seatbelt a little tighter.

He'd missed flying. Or maybe it had just been the idea of flying—of getting on a plane and just going anywhere he wanted. He hadn't missed this—the turbulence, the forcedly calm announcements by harried flight attendants.

He closed his eyes and leaned his forehead against the cold plastic surface. If the plane were to crash right here, right now, wouldn't it be kind of poetic justice? He wondered if you'd feel you were dying if you were in an exploding plane. At least Kate had been spared the agonizing seconds (minutes) of a massive piece of metal spiraling out of control towards the earth's surface at the speed of several hundred feet per second.

When he opened his eyes again, the turbulence had passed and the plane had leveled out. Outside, the same opaque haze greeted his eyes. He released the death drip on the armrest he hadn't even noticed he'd grabbed. His seat neighbor smiled at him sympathetically. "Fear of flying?"

Neal forced a fake smile. "Yeah, something like that."

_Except not quite,_ he added in his mind, but really didn't feel like having a meaningless conversation with a single-serving friend.

"Dammit, Adler," he hissed. Then he pushed the button for the flight attendant and asked for a Bloody Mary.

* * *

><p><em>Come on now<br>You knew you were lost  
>But you carried on anyway<br>Oh come on now  
>You knew you had no time<br>But you let the day drift away_

Eleven weeks and five days into Neal's disappearance (still no word, no trace, no evidence), Peter met with Mozzie.

It wasn't like he hadn't tried that route before. Of course Mozzie was one of the first Peter approached. The Little Guy hadn't been forthcoming in terms of helpful clues. Or any information, really. Peter figured it was probably because he truly didn't know anything. It made perfect sense. Neal was too careful for that.

Just the other day, Peter had realized that Neal's case had moved down the list to somewhere with the other cases that he still had a personal stake in, and looked at whenever he found a minute or whenever a new clue would present itself. Neal was becoming a cold case, and there wasn't anything he could do about it. White Collar crime didn't cease just because one Neal Caffrey had cut his anklet and run.

Peter also realized that it would be getting more and more difficult to find Neal. The frenzy had died down, and along with it the anger and the embitterment. Maybe it was time for measures not within FBI jurisdiction.

It was a park bench in Central Park, not too far from where Larssen had tried to kill Mozzie. The Little Guy had foregone all the mockingbird/newspaper shenanigans and just sat down next to Peter. "Suit," he said, his tone carefully neutral.

"Moz," Peter greeted back.

It seemed like Mozzie was giving him a once over, then said, "You look like hell."

_Thanks,_ Peter thought. "Yeah, I guess I'm not sleeping as much as I used to."

"If I were to warrant a guess, you asked for a meeting because of the person that is robbing you of your sleep."

"It's been three months, and there's no sign of him. Not one little, tiny indication. I mean, other than the wine bottle."

"He gave you that for safekeeping. You know that, right?"

"Safekeeping? For what? He knows that if he ever shows his face again after this, he's going back to prison. No anklet deal. God knows how many years of orange jumpsuits and bad coffee. No. I don't think he's coming back."

"Oh, but you underestimate Neal."

"Do I? Wait. Has he been in touch with you?"

"And what makes you think I'd tell you if he had?"

Peter turned his body slightly so that he was facing Mozzie. "I'm here as a friend, not as an FBI agent. So if you can't give up his location, at least tell me he's okay."

Moz smiled a wistful smile. "He's okay."

Inwardly, Peter breathed a sigh of relief. He looked at Mozzie for a long minute, then figured he'd give it a shot. "I don't suppose you can tell me where he—"

"No."

"Didn't think so." He reached inside his suit jacket and withdrew an envelope, holding it out to Mozzie. "If you have a way of giving this to him..."

"Peter," Mozzie said, his voice laden with unexpected regret.

Peter did a double-take because Mozzie never used his name. "Just... get it to him, Moz. I don't care how, or when. And there's nothing inside that's traceable, you can check it with your Russian surplus scanning equipment, or... whatever it is that you're using. It's just a message. I promise."

"Okay," the Little Guy acquiesced.

"Thank you," Peter muttered. It was heartfelt.

Mozzie got up from the bench. "If there's nothing else..."

Peter shook his head, even though he wanted to yell at Mozzie that Neal had to come back, that he needed his CI, his friend back. That he missed him, more than he would care to admit.

"I won't be seeing you," Moz said in lieu of goodbye.

Peter watched him walk away, realizing that he kind of missed Mozzie too.

"Dammit, Neal," he hissed. Then he watched a gray and white bird hop into the underbrush and wondered if it was a mockingbird.

* * *

><p><em>If a plane were to fall from the sky<br>How big a hole would it leave  
>If a plane were to fall from the sky<br>How big a hole would it make  
>In the surface of the earth<br>The surface of the earth_

It came in a standard issue US Postal Service cardboard box, together with a packet of June's coffee and a Post-It note in Moz's scribbled handwriting.

_The Suit wants you to have this. I scanned it, it should be safe._

It brought a smile to Neal's lips. Some things never changed.

Neal had kept it for weeks. He knew rationally it was a childish notion not to open it. But he was afraid it would change things, make them more difficult. So the envelope went wherever he went—unopened but always, _always_ cherished.

Today had been a bad day. And that said a lot because it had been too long to even remember what a good day felt like. The only upside was that the hotel was half decent, and that the coffee was good.

He sat with his elbows propped up on the tiny, worn desk, fingering the envelope in his hands. It was a split second, and he didn't know what came over him when he slipped his index finger underneath the flap, ripping open the top.

He only fully realized what he'd done, once it was already too late. It was open now. There was no going back. With shaky fingers he withdrew the single, folded page inside. It revealed... complete nonsense.

Neal frowned. It was a whole page filled with computer printed words upon words, which in its current context made no sense whatsoever. Of all the people to send him a personal message, the one from Peter had to be encoded? He figured maybe it was the man's twisted way of payback.

Neal sighed and started folding the paper in all kinds of different ways to try and figure out what the message was. Just over an hour later, he stared at the words that were revealed to him.

_Please come back. We will work something out. You are sorely missed._

Of all the things Neal had expected, it wasn't this. Anger maybe, disappointment, accusation. Perhaps also the question why. Not a desperate plea. Not from Peter Burke.

He stared at it. Tears of lonely despair spilled from his eyes and he stifled a sob by pressing his fist to his mouth.

The first time, the very first time since he'd turned his back on Manhattan, an inkling of doubt surfaced of whether he'd done the right thing. This was how it was going to start, and this was the exact reason why he had not wanted to open the damn thing in the first place.

His first impulse was to send back a reply. A postcard. A note. Something. It would have the following words on it:

_I can't. Please don't contact me ever again._

But he thought the better if it. It would only encourage Peter. It would encourage all the things he couldn't deal with, couldn't take. So it would be silence and disregard. It would have to be.

Through the window, he watched a plane in the distance against the pristine, blue sky, leaving a white streak of condensation in its wake. Neal wondered if it was New York-bound.

"Dammit, Peter," he hissed. Then he folded the letter back up and put it in a safe place where it could keep traveling with him to wherever this new life would take him.

* * *

><p>THE END.<p> 


End file.
